Call and Fold
by Mornwey
Summary: Ezra is running again, but he doesn't realise how badly he's misjudged the situation. JD and Vin are determined to set the whole mess right. Slash: CxE, ExJD, BxJD
1. Farewell Note

This fic will comprise nine parts: a prologue, seven chapters, and an epilogue. The principle pairings will be Chris/Ezra, Buck/JD, and Ezra/JD. There may be mildly smut-flavoured parts…that is, as smut-flavoured as FFN will allow. Be warned of slash ahead – flamers fail to interest me on any level, so please spare me the effort of holding you in contempt.

**Prologue – Farewell Note**

_Firstly, allow me to say that I understand how angry you are at this moment; if you are reading this, then my absence has clearly been noted. I beseech you not to burn this letter or otherwise throw it away. I swore once I would not run out on you again, and though at the time I meant every word, circumstances have made a liar of me. I have no doubt that by the time you finish this letter, you will also feel that my departure was for the best._

_To put it bluntly, I cannot be the man you and the rest of our compatriots need me to be. I cannot deny my nature any longer. In truth I have been expecting this for a long while now; the only surprise is that I have held out this long. I have been well aware of my own proclivities for many years. I am equally aware that these proclivities are likely to get me shot should they ever be discovered._

_I know what it is that attracts me. I have an inexplicable weakness for blonde hair. But more than anything else it is a sense of danger, so similar to the rush of combat or a daring con, the threat of imminent death. A dangerous person._

_I am almost certain you realise where this is going._

_Under any other circumstances, I would be able to control myself indefinitely. A little unrequited lust is common enough, and easy to deal with. This, however, was not supposed to happen. I am truly sorry. I was unprepared. I was not expecting to fall in love._

_I suspect it is futile to wish for you not to think ill of me, but I need you understand why I left. This is better for everybody. I will not press my attentions where they are so clearly unwanted, but my life as a con artist has taught me that maintaining a facade constantly for too long is wearying. One becomes tired, makes mistakes. Sooner or later I would have been unable to stop myself._

_Tell the others whatever you wish. Let them hate me for abandoning and betraying them, for my unnatural and unwanted desires. But then forget me. _

_Forget me. Please, for the love of God, forget me._

_I'm sorry._

Slowly, the letter is crumpled in a fist and thrown against the wall.

"Goddamnit, Ezra, why didn't you _say_ something!"


	2. Shorter Odds

**Chapter 1 – Shorter Odds**

He didn't expect it to be like this. On any level. He had thought on Casey for a while, thought about shy, sweetly nervous exploration in the hayloft; tentative kisses and the fear of being discovered. But that stage had left town months ago, with a regretful but firm monologue on her part. He'd been unable to speak, confused and hurt and almost relieved in a way, convinced it should hurt more than it did. Then events had taken an unexpected and frightening turn when his dreams featured slowly but surely the increasing presence of a horribly familiar moustached face.

He'd come very close to a heart attack that night, sitting bolt up right in bed in fear of the name so perilously close to falling from his lips.

No, it wasn't supposed to be like this. It should have been some sweet young thing as shy and inexperienced as he, or maybe a working girl if he ever got up the courage. But fate had other ideas. An offer of a drink and company is all it takes to undo his efforts at secrecy, a drunken confession escaping from him before he has the wit to realise what he's saying.

He bites his lip and flushes bright red, humiliation and abject terror doing the job of a night's sleep and several pints of coffee. He would be lucky to merely be run out of town if his shameful secret were known. Later it occurs to him that he could have passed the whole thing off as a joke, but at that moment the little room above the saloon seems threatening and claustrophobic, and his immediate instinct is to run while he still can.

It's not the hand catching his arm that stops him - he could break free if he wanted to - but the calm green eyes that meet his, not the slightest trace of censure or revulsion evident anywhere in voice or eyes or posture. He sinks back down onto the bed again and the hand migrates up his arm and skims across his shoulder before coming to rest gently cupping his cheek. He spares a moment to wonder what the hell is happening to his life as incongruously soft lips press almost hesitantly against his own, but maybe he's drunker than he thought because he doesn't get up and walk away like he's certain he should. Instead he leans in closer, makes an encouraging noise which sounds embarrassingly like a whimper to his own ears, and opens his mouth to permit entrance by a devastatingly skilled tongue.

If feels a little bit like dying...in a good way.

He plucks up his courage and kisses back, mimicking the motion of the mouth locked onto his, and is surprised and gratified by the moan he receives in return. Somehow he's gone from sitting perched on the edge of the bed to sprawled across it, held firmly down by the solid, warm body pressed against him. He's almost ashamed of how hard he's gotten in such a short space of time until he recognises the matching hardness against his inner thigh. And it's such a rush to realise the effect he's having on someone normally so controlled.

Their shirts seem to have disappeared somewhere along the way, but damned if he can figure out how. It's the sudden feeling of skin on skin, though, that halts them in their tracks. For a long moment they stare at each other in the dim, flickering lamplight.

"I- I'm not- I didn't-" He stammers, uncertain and afraid again, with not the faintest idea of what he'd say even if he _was_ capable of completing a coherent sentence. The eyes above him are stormy and troubled, and he is almost certain he knows what the older man is thinking: is this a mistake? Is he taking advantage of an inexperienced and painfully innocent young friend? Would it be better for everyone if they stopped right here and pretended the whole incident never occurred?

Probably. On all three counts. But mistakes can be corrected later, and he _wants_ to be taken advantage of, damnit! He's sick of being treated like a boy who can't take care of himself. His voice still wavers, but his mind is made up.

"Please, don't- don't stop." He's shaking like a leaf. He knows he wants this, though, even if it's not what he's always expected, not even what he's been secretly dreaming of.

Then he's being touched again, but the intent is different now: soft caresses soothing away the trembling and urging him to relax. That honey-sweet southern drawl is low and calming in his ear, hot breath tickling his neck and butterfly kisses dropped on delicate skin: "Hush now, I'm not going to hurt you...just trust me and you'll be fine. It'll be good..." Like a spooked horse he lets himself be lulled by the murmured litany. Despite himself, he does trust.

The pace is slower now, and for the time being he resolves to simply lie back and let it happen. Carefully, almost reverently, he is divested of his clothing. Part of him insists he shouldn't be lying naked in someone else's bed, another _man's_ no less, but that little voice is easy to ignore. He feels good.

A kiss is pressed against his bare shoulder, then another, and one at the hollow of his throat. A fourth teases the tip of his ear, accompanied by a whisper of; "Just tell me to stop and I will." He has no intention of saying anything of the sort, but he nods anyway.

A sudden bite at the junction of neck and shoulder takes him by surprise and he cries out as heat surges through him. The chuckle the drifts up from the region of his collarbone feels like it should be illegal in and of itself, no words he knows adequate to describe the bolts of lightning it sends shooting straight to his cock. That wicked mouth trails southward and closes over a nipple, and again he wails, whimpers, moans, mere human language unfit to communicate the pleasure he feels.

"Please!" he gasps; "Please, I don't think I can last much longer!" He's not sure precisely what he's pleading for, but whatever it is he's never wanted anything more. His dreams want to intrude on the moment. The face pressed against his neck is clean-shaven, though, and as their hips grind frantically together, there's no way in hell he could possibly forget who he's with. He's delirious with pleasure, so far gone he doesn't even notice the pitiful sounds and barely coherent pleas falling carelessly from his lips. Then the world shrinks and goes white and explodes into a million pieces of light, and he's being kissed with an intensity that's almost painful as they swallow each others' cries of ecstasy.

They stay like that for quite some time, clinging together as the world rebuilds itself from razor-bright shards and their breathing slows from harsh pants, returning to normal. Inevitably, reality begins to permeate the blissful post-orgasmic haze.

No words are spoken as he dresses and leaves, but the eyes watching him say it all. He doesn't see pity, only a sad understanding. It's worse somehow - pity he could have been offended by, taken umbrage at and thereby dismissed. It puzzles him at first...but then maybe the next day, paying more attention now, he notices green eyes lingering a little too long on their glorious leader, a wistful gaze swiftly masked by the gambler's usual composure. In a way that makes it easier, to know that someone else is hurting the same way he is.

Seems he isn't the only one who wants what he can't have...

That was months ago now. It was probably foolish of him to go back the next night...and the night after that...but he couldn't quite stop himself. It made sense in a twisted sort of way, two people who could never have what they truly wanted seeking comfort with each other. It seems almost absurd to him when he lets himself think about it: a not-so-inexperienced-any-more boy longing for a sworn and devoted womaniser, a canny gambler secretly hoping for the love of a bitter gunslinger despite the odds stacked overwhelmingly against him. But odds don't enter so much into real life and affairs of the heart: he knew Ezra would have folded long ago on a hand of cards with the same odds.

But every good conman knows when the game is up, and that morning JD was the only person not overwhelming curious as to why Chris Larabee was storming out of the jailhouse with a crumpled letter in his fist. He feigned interest and worry to match everyone else, but he knew the gist of the letter, if not the exact content. He and Ezra had said their goodbyes the previous night, falling into bed with the desperate urgency of lovers - if that was even the right word - who knew they would probably never see each other again.

He doesn't begrudge Ezra a fresh start, doesn't blame him for not being able to cope any more. The others would, of course, but none of them had been permitted to see how repressing his feelings had torn the southerner up inside.

He doesn't blame Ezra for not backing a hand with such seemingly impossibly long odds. But seeing the confusion - almost pain - as Chris stares at the letter, he wonders if Ezra might not have folded a bit too soon.


	3. Third Party

**Chapter 2 – Third Party**

_Goddamnit, Ez, what the hell were you thinkin'?_

Deep down, he knows Ezra isn't solely to blame. He knows better than anyone else - except from JD, maybe - because no-one else really saw what was happening. Ezra didn't ask for things to turn out like this. He can't even blame Ezra for running, not really, not knowing what was at stake.

He might not have had a fancy education like Ezra, but that doesn't make him stupid. And he'd bet nobody else had thought to put two and two together in their bewilderment as to how they'd ended up with four. Four was about right actually: four of seven. Ezra gone, and Chris and JD too hurt and confused to function normally. Which left the remaining four chasing their tails trying to fix whatever went wrong.

No, this isn't going to work. They need to be seven again. But he has to wonder what the odds are of finding Ezra when he doesn't want to be found. Man might think that what he did was for the best, but personal issues aside, they need him. Can't afford to lose any one of them.

He knew what was going on the whole time. In fact, he still doesn't quite understand why the others didn't: seems impossible to miss feelings like that flying around. A blind man could see the sparks flying between Chris and Ezra, although perhaps the others just saw it differently.

Now JD...he's a little hazy on how JD got mixed up in this mess. Didn't miss the kid sneaking up to the saloon at nights, though, and it's probably for the best that everyone else missed it. Violence would have ensued if anyone had noticed that their resident gambler made a man of the kid when no-one was watching. But feelings of fraternal protectiveness aside, he thinks it did JD good. He might not know the exact circumstances, but he does know his fellow peacekeepers. He knows JD isn't exactly helpess. He knows that if any sort of manipulation had been involved, JD wouldn't have been fool enough to go back for more...and Ezra would probably have gotten shot for his troubles. And most importantly he knows that, despite that self-centred facade, Ezra would never hurt anyone who placed that sort of trust in him.

So he's going to keep quiet about that one...maybe have a word with JD, make sure there's no danger of guilt triggering a confession. Buck would hit the roof, and more than likely Chris would too, and Nathan would naturally assume it was all some nefarious plot on Ezra's part, and any protestations JD made to the contrary would be overridden. And that's one fiasco he's hoping to avoid if at all possible. He's not sure exactly how it came about, but he hasn't missed that JD's more confident now, more self assured. Maybe their current problem will teach him something too, and he'll approach Buck before it's too late instead of making the same mistake Ezra did. Yes, Vin knows about that. It's a burden, sometimes, being more observant than the others.

He knows about the letter, too, although that's purely because Chris learned long ago that trying to keep secrets from him is an exercise in futility. He'd squirmed a bit on the receiving end of the Glare, finally admitting that yes, he knew before, but he hadn't wanted to interfere. He'd always assumed that they'd get round to getting together in their own time. In hindsight, he wishes he'd said something when it could have made a difference.

Something still bothers him about the letter, and it takes him a while to realise what. Then it hits him: Ezra expected them to think it was better that he'd left, to be glad he was gone. He certainly wouldn't be expecting them to come looking...which meant he wouldn't be taking too much care to cover his tracks, metaphorically or literally.

He's stopped dead in the middle of the street, but he doesn't care. The trail's barely twenty-four hours cold. They can still catch him. Vin grins: catch him, drag him back to town, then lock him in a cupboard with Chris and wait for the inevitable to happen. Then he'll do the same to Buck and JD. At that moment, anything seems possible.

He executes a neat about-face and heads for the saloon. He calmly but firmly intercepts the whiskey bottle on its way to Chris' mouth and sets it back down on the table.

"Saddle your horse, cowboy, we're goin' after 'im. You've got ten minutes to sober up - I'm gonna go round up the others."

He seems to be in charge whether he likes it or not, but it has to be done. He doesn't miss the beaming smile Inez sends his way. The rest of town is still under the impression that Ezra is on an extended patrol out towards Bear Creek, but Inez knows better. She likes Ezra, and as the manager of the saloon she knows everything that goes on there. Which is why she's noticed that most of his things are gone from his room, and why, come to think of it, she's been very sympathetic to JD. They got lucky there. If Inez had been a less open-minded sort, she could have made life very difficult for them.

He rounds up Josiah and JD and sends them to the stables, then explains the situation to Nathan and Buck before heading back to the saloon to make sure Chris is upright and functioning. All in all it takes fifteen minutes 'til they're riding out.

Josiah seems a little bewildered, but Chris looks almost hopeful and JD is grinning from ear to ear. Vin is determined: they're going to fix this mess. They're going to get their wayward southerner back.

They're going to find Ezra and bring him home.


	4. The Seventh Day

**Chapter 3 –The Seventh Day  
**

They've been trailing Ezra for the better part of a week now, and hell if the boy isn't damned hard to trace when he doesn't want to be found.

They passed Eagle Bend four days ago. Vin thinks they're gaining on him, but it's hard to be sure. The tension in the air is almost tangible, so thick you could cut it with a knife: the trail is leading with unerring certainty to Ridge City, where the stagecoach route crosses the railroad. If Ezra reaches Ridge City before them, gets on a train...they'll never catch him.

For this reason, they make camp late and leave early. Josiah gets the impression that if they were out alone, Chris and Vin wouldn't stop at all. JD's brimming over with nervous energy too, hardly able to sit still even when they do make camp. Shadows under his eyes show how poorly he's been sleeping.

Now Josiah isn't stupid. He knows there's something going on here, something he hasn't been told about. No-one seems to know the exact circumstances surrounding Ezra's rather sudden departure.

But that isn't exactly true, is it? Vin knows what's going on, he'd stake his life on it: it's clear in the way he takes charge without seeming to realise he's doing so, occasional comments which mystify Josiah, but Chris and JD seem to understand. JD knows more than he's letting on too, and it's obvious that whatever it is has upset him. He makes plaintive little noises in his sleep, hands subconsciously reaching for someone who isn't there.

And Chris...he may _know_ what happened, Josiah thinks, but he doesn't seem to _understand_. The troubled look in his eyes speaks of confusion and pain.

The sun dawns painfully bright over the trail to Ridge City, by which point they're already on their way. It's the seventh day since they left Four Corners. They're tired, true, but weary spirits are lifted by the discovery of the ashes of a campfire around noon. Vin declares it only a few hours cold, and stakes his reputation on Ezra having been there. The air of grim determination hanging over the group strengthens noticeably.

"What's the next town?" Josiah asks, eyes fixed on the burnt-out ashes.  
"Hapley's Well," Vin replies; "We should get there not long after nightfall; a few hours behind Ezra."  
"You mean we'll catch up with him tonight?" JD says, eyes bright with hope and something else Josiah can't quite put a name to. Vin casts a swift sideways glance at Chris, who hasn't moved a muscle since they stopped, and murmurs; "Hopefully."

They push themselves hard, well into twilight. No-one wants to even suggest slowing.

Sunset is perhaps an hour past when they crest a hill to see the lights of Hapley's Well spread out below them. It's a little larger than Four Corners, and a lot rowdier. Without a word they take their horses to the livery and split up to look for signs of their wayward seventh brother.

Josiah is passing a shabby, nameless saloon when he spots a distinctive flash of red inside. He hovers outside the door, hesitant, simultaneously relieved and unnerved at the appearance of the gambler holding court at a poker table within. At first glance he seems calm, confident, relaxed; in complete control of himself and everything around him. Only someone who knew him well would see the shuttered look in his eyes, know that the tension in his posture was unusual. He smiles at a fellow player, but there is no flash of gold and his eyes remain blank.

With the game in full swing, Ezra won't be going anywhere for a while. Josiah makes a hasty retreat before he is noticed and goes to find the others.

He finds JD first, coming out of the local hotel. At the news that Ezra has been found the young man gives a grin like the sun coming up. He volunteers to go fetch Chris and practically bounces away, calling over his shoulder that he saw Vin heading for the boarding house.

Vin's reaction to the news is not as blatant as JD's, but just as strong. He gives a quiet, pleased smile like that cat that's eaten the canary, and not for the first time Josiah wonders what everyone else seems to know that he doesn't.

They arrive at the saloon a little ahead of Chris and JD, and they wait at the door so all four of them can enter together. The patrons mostly ignore them, a few wary glances cast their way, but the four are concerned only with Ezra.

They watch him surreptitiously as they enter, and all see the gambler freeze; the briefest flash of panic showing before his poker face slams back into place. The other men at the table assess the situation with commendable swiftness of mind and flee with hastily mumbled apologies. Abruptly alone, Ezra's eyes harden.

Vin leans in close to Chris and murmurs softly; "Don't screw this up, cowboy." Josiah feels his eyebrows rise, and Vin shoots him a sharp look at JD's significantly cleared throat.

In Josiah's opinion, the situation is getting downright peculiar.

They settle themselves into seats around the table, effectively blocking any escape route. Ezra isn't going to give in easily though. He raises an eyebrow sardonically; "Good evening, gentlemen." His tone is polite, distant, just this side of bored. The same tone he would use to any stranger. Josiah doesn't like it, and judging by their expressions, the others don't either. He's seen Ezra worried, guilty, in pain...but nothing like this. He's hiding it well, but the southerer is scared half out of his mind.

"Ez," Vin says firmly, breaking the silence; "When're you comin' home?"  
"Never having graced any locale by such an appellation, that would be an impossibility in and of itself, Mr. Tanner." A careless shrug; "If, however, you refer to my return to Four Corners, the succinct answer would be that I have no intentions of returning. Ever."  
"Fairly certain we had a discussion about you runnin' out on me again." Chris' eyes are narrowed, his voice low.  
"Unless you have unaccountably failed to receive my correspondence, you must realise that my departure was in everyone's best interests."  
"Ezra..." JD's eyes are huge, pleading, and the wavering of the gambler's resolve is almost visible; "It's not like you thought it would be. He knows now - shouldn't you at least give him a chance?"  
"Can you claim you would be any less wary in my position, Mr. Dunne?"  
"Probably not," JD admits; "But I wouldn't have been able to leave in the first place. I sure as hell couldn't have left a letter like that."  
"It mighta seemed like the best idea at the time, Ez," Vin backs JD up quietly; "But even if you won't admit to it, you read things wrong. I ain't sayin' you shouldn't have left, 'cause god know I woulda done the same, but you're five kinds of fool if you don't take a chance and come back with us."

Josiah wants to speak, to add his reassurances, but he's increasingly convinced that he doesn't know the half of what's going on. Why did Ezra run anyway? What exactly was in that letter, which Chris has consistently refused to let anyone else see? And more to the point, why does everyone else know more about it than he does?

Ezra rises abruptly to his feet, his eyes as hard and uncompromising as steel. "I thank you for your concern, gentlemen, but it is unnecessary. Good night." With a quick, jerky movement he touches his hatbrim briefly and slips past Vin to disappear out the batwing doors. Within a heartbeat JD has followed. Chris shoots to his feet with the same intent, but is stopped by Vin's hand on his shoulder.

"Best not. Reckon JD's the one to talk to him."  
"How'd you figure?" Chris asks, understandably nonplussed.  
"Not my place to say." Vin clears his throat a little awkwardly; "But JD knows more about what's going on than anyone except Ezra."  
"I envy him that," Josiah says, folding his arms; "What just happened, Vin?"  
"Ain't my story to tell..." Vin looks to Chris for support.  
"Oh no, I'm with the preacher on this one. Talk."

Vin's glare could have rivaled Chris at his worst.

"Fine then," he snapped, slouching down into a chair; "But you got only yourself to blame if you don't like what you hear...and if that letter said what I reckon it did, you sure you want Josiah hearin' this?"

That statement only makes Josiah more determined to hear what he has to say, and Chris, though looking a little worried now, doesn't back down. Vin nods wearily as if he expected no less; "I want your word you won't mention this to another living soul."  
"You have it."  
"Likewise," Josiah agreed tersely; "Now why did Ezra run?"  
Vin takes a deep breath and says bluntly; "He's scared witless 'cause he's fallen for Chris."

A long pause. Josiah runs that sentence through his head a few times to see if he can possibly make it mean something other than the obvious. He comes up blank. Vin is watching him warily, and Chris is staring at Vin like he's grown a second head. Josiah suspects he should be rather more shocked than he is, but something about the whole situation seems surreally logical.

"Oh," he says.  
"How in the name of hell did you find out anyway?" Chris demands grouchily.  
"Was pretty damn obvious if you were lookin' for it."  
"And you were looking for it?"  
"Gotta pass the time somehow, cowboy." The attempt at humour fell flat.  
"But what does JD have to do with it?" Josiah still doesn't quite understand that part.  
"I'm not-"  
"Spill it, Vin."  
"Don't wanna tell you. You'll get the wrong end of the stick and probably end up shootin' Ezra."

Josiah looks to his left to confirm that, yes, Chris is just as lost as he is.

"Well if you say he doesn't need shot for whatever he's done, I'll take your word for it," Chris says thoughtfully; "Can't guarantee I won't be pissed, though."  
"S'pose that's the best I'm gettin'," Vin mutters; "Alright then. JD's in the same boat as Ez, 'cept it's Buck he's got his eye on. Reckon the two of 'em decided to...console each other a bit."  
"_What?_"  
"Hey, hey, you said you wouldn't shoot 'im! Calm down!"

Josiah tunes the other two out to concentrate on his own shattered images of his friends. On reflection, he decides ruefully, he was probably happier not knowing.


	5. Texas Hold'em

**Chapter 4 –Texas Hold'em  
**

Hapley's Well is an old town by the standards of the West. It grew gradually over the years - slowly, but with a certain implacable determination. For all intents and purposes it is nothing more than a brief stop on the way to Ridge City, one more dusty, faceless town in a long succession of dusty, faceless towns.

It is not quiet at night. The iron-ore miners from the camps to the south flood in daily, looking to fritter away their wages on cheap women and bad whiskey, and perhaps recoup some of their losses at the gaming table. Under other circumstances Ezra might linger a while there, gently separating the miners from their money with a charming manner diverting attention from the increasing size of the pot. But now he feels jumpy, paranoid. They've come after him. Why in the name of hell have they come after him? He has already made it quite clear that he will cause them no further trouble.

Worse than anything else, he can feel his resolve wavering. He has to leave. If they ask him to return again, he won't be able to say no.

Bringing JD was downright sneaky - he'd bet a month of his wages, pitiful though they are, that it was Vin's idea. He finds it frustratingly difficult to mistrust the youngest member of their little band. It's even harder to say no to him, to disappoint him, especially having seen the hurt in his eyes when he first heard of Ezra's plans to leave. He'd done his best to ease the feelings of betrayal, to soothe them away with soft words and softer touches, but the memory still haunts him.

It was a mistake to become attached, to open to others even a little. If he hadn't then he could have left easily, no pursuit, his disappearance hurting no-one. The clean break he'd envisaged had become very messy.

The whole affair was a mistake, really. He tells himself he should have listened to his conscience the first night. Should have listened to that little voice insisting that he was taking advantage of the boy. But it was so strong, the temptation to reach out and comfort someone feeling the same pain he was.

And it was good while it lasted. JD proved a very fast learner. Under different circumstances, if they weren't both dreaming of someone else...it could have worked.

All this runs through his head as he leaves the saloon and makes his way to the livery, head down and strides purposeful through the nighttime streets. He hasn't taken a room yet - for the best, as it turns out - and his pack and saddlebags are still with his horse, the gambler confident in Chaucer's ability to see off any would-be thieves.

Someone has followed him from the saloon, and he hopes it isn't JD. He hopes it's Vin or Josiah or even Chris, someone he can stand to harden his heart to and drive away. Much is it would pain him to do that - especially to Chris - the others are old and experienced enough to deal with it and move on.

As it happens, Lady Luck is not on his side this night.

He has just entered the livery when he hears his name being called softly behind him. He recognises the voice and curses silently, but against his better judgement he stops and listens, skin prickling from the gaze directed at the back of his neck.

"Ezra, you can't go."  
"I do believe we have already had this conversation. I have made my decision."  
"Before you knew all the facts."  
"Mr. Dunne-"  
"Don't do that, Ezra. It's JD. It has been for a while now, in case you haven't noticed."  
"Under the circumstances..."  
"What circumstances? That you're scared of getting attached? That you won't take a chance to get something better? Or maybe it's just ungentlemanly to call someone by name even after you've fucked them."

Now he _knows_ his time in Four Corners has dulled his edge, because he can't quite hide his flinch at that. He turns slowly, giving himself a moment to regain control, and is gratified in a sad sort of way to see that JD looks somewhat shocked by his own words.

"I am not entirely certain that I deserved that."  
"I..." the younger man seems momentarily too appalled to speak; "Jesus, Ezra, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."  
"I'm somewhat mystified as to how else it could possibly have been meant."  
"I didn't...damn it, that's not the point anyway."

He takes two tentative steps forward to close the distance between them, unintimidated by the blank face staring back at him. His expression is intense and focused, desperation in his stance and hope in his eyes.

"You weren't there, Ez. You didn't see him when he read the letter. I know you didn't want to take the risk, and I woulda been scared too, but he _knows_ now. He knows, and he still rode all this way to come and bring you home. Surely you can give him a chance?"

JD reaches out to grasp his arm, and at that touch the last of Ezra's already-failing determination to flee comes perilously close to shattering completely. He pulls away, not quite succeeding in smothering his guilt at the flash of hurt it causes.

A softly cleared throat announces another presence. Vin is watching them from the doorway, his expression as distant and unreadable as the face of the moon. He addresses JD first but his eyes never leave Ezra: "Might wanna head back to the saloon, kid. 'Siah's lookin' a bit dazed, an' I reckon he could do with better company than Chris right now."

JD takes the hint. With one last pleading look at Ezra he leaves.

Silence ensues.

Within five minutes Ezra's self-control is starting to crack. He hates silence. Perhaps most of his compatriots, used to the trail and the wilderness, are comfortable with it, but Ezra is a city boy at heart. Silence is indicative of something wrong, and it makes him jumpy.

"Very well," he sighs, conceding victory to the soundless reproach he has been receiving; "I am, contrary to my better judgement, listening. You may speak your piece Mr. Tanner."  
"Ain't got much to say," comes the quiet reply; "Just that I won't stand by an' watch any of my friends toss away a chance at happiness."  
Ezra isn't quite sure how to reply to that. "I assume in that case it was your idea to pursue me?"  
"Yep. Others didn't exactly argue, though." A pause before he adds; "Leavin' mighta seemed like the best thing to do. But the fact is, we're bringin' you home if we have to hog-tie you ta do it."  
"And what exactly do you plan on doing then?" Ezra asks, amused despite himself.  
"Gonna lock you an' Chris in a room 'til you come you your senses. Then I'm gonna do the same to Buck an' JD. You lot ain't gettin' away with this damned moonin' any longer. Distractin's what it is."

Well he'd be lying if he said _that_ is the answer he expected. A laugh escapes him before he can stop it; "Well I must confess that sounds rather more appealing than my best-laid plans. In that case, I surrender my fate into your capable hands."

They leave the livery together, falling into step with an unconscious easiness that still faintly surprises Ezra when he thinks about it. Vin is looking extremely pleased with himself...which is fair enough, really. For all his morals and code of honour, the tracker can be quite startlingly devious.

"How long have you known?"  
"About you 'an Chris, Buck an' JD, or you an' JD?" Is the rhetorical and somewhat sarcastic answer.  
"Ah. I should have known."

Vin leads the way to the hotel, takes a room key and motions for Ezra to follow him upstairs. The hotel is, like most of Hapley's Well, plain but sturdy. Not beautiful, but built to endure for decades to come. Somewhere in the back of his mind Ezra hopes that's an omen.

They make their way up three narrow, winding flights of stairs and along a smugly spartan hallway to stop outside room twenty-six. Out of long habit Ezra works out the position of the room relative to the surroundings, and is pleased to realise that the window of this room should provide an easy escape route onto the roof of the general store. Such things are good to know.

Vin eases the door open, stands aside to let him enter first.

He takes a step forward. Stops dead. Chris is standing by the window - right in the way of his proposed escape route. Ezra turns to leave the way he came in and finds Vin blocking _that_ way out. Panic surges through him as he realises he is trapped, completely at the mercy of these two men. Reflexively he brushes some imaginary dust from his right sleeve. The derringer is still present and correct. If the worst should happen, if this is all a setup...he won't go down without a fight.

"Oh no you don't," Vin says, turning the unresisting southerner around and giving him a little push into the room. "You two are gonna talk this out. One way or another."  
"I hadn't realised you were serious about locking us up," Ezra murmurs. Reality seems very disjointed and far away. What a bizarre situation in which to find himself.  
"Deadly serious." Vin nods in Chris' direction; "Try not to shoot each other."

And then the door is closed, locked, the room quiet save for the sound of soft footsteps retreating down the hallway.

"You shouldn't have left." It's Chris who speaks first, still leaning against the windowframe, a certain wariness and uncharacteristic uncertainty in his manner.  
Ezra raises an irritated eyebrow - he's heard those sentiments enough times in the last hour that he hopes never to hear them again. "So I have been told. Repeatedly. It is becoming more than a little repetitive."  
"Don't make it any less true."  
"Oh? And what exactly was I supposed to do?" The silence which follows is all the answer he needs; "Precisely. I only ever bet on a sure thing, and at the time the odds were most definitely skewed towards my getting shot if I was so foolish as to let something slip."

There is a lot which could be said at this point, but it all seems somewhat futile. The air is full of the ghosts of words that died unspoken. But vows and promises and declarations are, in the end, are nothing more than words.

The silence is better. It demands no explanations.  
Some things, however, need to be said.

"You're coming home with us?"  
"Yes."


End file.
